


Things Left to Say

by loopnoid



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Dialogue, Episode: s07e23 Extreme Measures, Episode: s07e25 What You Leave Behind, M/M, Plus a little epilogue, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loopnoid/pseuds/loopnoid
Summary: "Ilovemy wife.""And I love Garak. Passionately."Three scenes from the final episodes of Deep Space Nine, except different.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Miles O'Brien, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 23
Kudos: 96





	Things Left to Say

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure this has been done already but, hey, still fun, right?  
> Might be obvious considering the context, but CW for prominent mentions of like... war casualties and planet-wide devastation.  
> Thank you to my dear [priestessarcana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/priestessarcana) for beta-ing, plus generally putting up with me and my insufferably indecisive and perfectionist tendencies <3

“Well, so… this is it?!”

“It does look that way.”

Miles O’Brien groans, and slumps beside Julian Bashir against the hard wall of the corridor. Or what Sloan’s mind is manifesting as a corridor. He looks at the walls, barely illuminated, and thinks that, hell, out of all the possible ways to die, this has to be one of the dumbest. The cause might have been noble enough, but when it comes down to it, that’s never more than the smallest comfort. 

“I should’ve left a note for Keiko, to let her know what we were planning,” he muses more to himself than to his current company.

Bashir shakes his head. Resignation is already evident in his voice as he retorts “Ah, why worry her?”

“No, I w— I want her and the kids to understand why I had to do this,” O’Brien mumbles.

“She’ll understand, she’ll know,” Bashir insists. “You did it for me.”

“That what’ll upset her the most,” he says with barely concealed amusement, and sighs. “She always said I… I liked you more than I liked her.”

Bashir stammers. “That—that’s ridiculous.”

“Right,” he chuckles.

“Well, maybe—maybe you do, a bit more.”

“What?” O’Brien turns in disbelief. “Are you crazy? She's my wife! I love her.”

“Of course you love her! She's your wife.”

“Yeah!”

“…I'm just saying maybe you like me a bit more, that's all,” he insists carefully.

“I do not.”

A beat.

"You spend more time with me.”

O’Brien’s tone turns irritated. “We _work_ together.”

“We have more in common.”

“Julian, you are beginning to annoy me.”

“Darts, racquetball, Vic's lounge, the Alamo… Need I go on?”

“I _love_ my wife.”

Bashir turns away. “And I love Garak. Passionately.”

It takes a few seconds for the Chief’s brain to understand what he just heard. For a moment, he forgets the pain of the phaser shot entirely. “ _What?_ ”

Bashir looks at him with his brow furrowed—whether it’s in confusion or irritation, O’Brien can’t tell. “Oh, come on. Is it that surprising?”

“Well, I—” he stutters. “I knew you were… attracted to him, but love…” he trails off.

Bashir knows his friend will need some time to process the information, so he gives it to him. From his point of view, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise, but he supposes Miles does have a different perspective of things—once, he would’ve been able to write it off as infatuation, hope to forget the issue after three months and a night of drinking. Bashir had always been prompt to falling fast and headfirst, after all.

But Miles also knew better. He knew the ways their relationship had developed far beyond what either of them could have predicted. He knew Garak had shared things with Julian no one else could even dream of knowing. He knew, as well, that they had grown apart during the war, especially since taking back Deep Space Nine. No, this was far past the infatuation stage.

It was less a matter of putting the pieces together, and more of… accepting the existence of the puzzle.

“You really love him?”

“Yes.”

“Like… _love_ love him?”

“ _Yes_ , Miles.”

“Alright, I’m just checking,” he says defensively. “Have you told him?”

“…Not yet.” He’s not _embarrassed_. He’s an adult. He still can’t bring himself to look his friend in the face for more than a fleeting moment. “But I will.”

“Oh yeah?” A dry chuckle. “When?”

“When I’m ready!”

It’s not a lie, though it’s not the full truth either, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready. But he _will_ do it. Besides, having the cat out of the bag with his best friend motivates him to, somehow. As if he’ll disappoint him if he keeps backing out forever.

Elim Garak has had a penchant for pushing Bashir out of his comfort zone since the beginning. It’s one of the things he loves about him, even if he doesn’t enjoy it. But there’s something to be said about the constancy of Miles O’Brien, too. If Garak is excitement, the thrill of a challenge, a dancing partner with whom you can’t slack off as you carry out the most exquisite of waltzs, Miles is stability, a trusty boulder to hold on to, the gentle push of a hand on your back ushering you forward when you need some support.

“It’s just that I like _you_ … a bit more. See? There. I’ve admitted it.”

O’Brien rolls to rest his back against the wall again, wanting to look anywhere that wasn’t at Bashir. Internally, he wants to retort _I should damn hope so._ And he’s right, he really is. But right now it’s very likely that they’re about to die, and he doesn’t want to spend his last moments arguing with his best friend. Because sure, the chap’s taste may be questionable, maybe downright alarming, but you can’t control who you fall in love with, right? And, most importantly, you can’t control who your friends fall in love with, boneheaded as they might be. There’s no point in making a fuss about it, really.

So instead, he says “Yeah, well… I _love_ my wife.”

“Eight hundred million dead,” he says, eyes glued to the screen.

“And casualty reports still coming in,” Garak adds, his voice devoid of his usual manufactured cheer. He composes himself quickly, though. “Well, aren’t you going to congratulate me, Doctor? My exile is now officially over. I've returned home.” His gaze drifts away towards nothing in particular. “Or rather, to what's left of it.”

Bashir doesn’t look up. He can’t seem to muster up the energy. “Listen, I… I know this must seem bleak—”

“Some may say that we’ve gotten just what we deserve,” Garak interrupts, stepping closer. “After all, we’re not entirely innocent, are we? And I'm not just speaking of the Bajoran occupation. No, our whole history is one of _arrogant aggression_.” His voice is breathy and ragged, filled with self-inflicting venom. After all these years, Bashir is familiar with the agitated but matter-of-fact tone his friend adopts under emotional stress. It never stops being ugly. “We've collaborated with the Dominion, betrayed the entire Alpha Quadrant. Oh, no, no. There's no doubt about it. We're guilty as charged.”

“You and I both know that the Cardassians are a strong people,” Bashir tries. “They'll survive. _Cardassia_ will survive—”

But Garak chuckles maliciously. “Please, Doctor. Spare me your insufferable Federation optimism. Of course it will survive! But as not the Cardassia I knew.” Bashir can feel the familiar blue eyes piercing the back of his skull. He still can’t look. “We had a rich and ancient culture. Our literature, music, art were second to none. And now… so much of it is… lost.” By now, his voice has turned into a whisper. “So many of our best people, our most gifted minds…”

Bashir finally musters up the will to look up and confront the situation. He sees Garak staring into space, broken with grief, far beyond the scope of what words can comfort, and understands that he can’t, in fact, possibly understand. His friend often used to remind him of such, in more trivial matters—he would argue, then, when it was all theoretical. Delicately, he reaches for his shoulder and whispers back. “I’m sorry, Garak. I didn’t mean…”

The touch seems to wake Garak from his spell, and he shakes himself up quickly (though Bashir can still see he’s out of breath and his pupils are dilated.) “Oh, it's… it’s quite alright, Doctor,” he manages, turning towards him. They haven’t been so closely face to face like this for a long time. The softness in his voice and the emotion in his face are overwhelming. “You've been such a good friend. I'm going to miss our lunches together.” He smiles, and just like that, the mask is back on.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” Bashir says, and it feels like trying to grasp at clouds.

“I’d like to think so,” Garak nods, “but one can never say. We live in uncertain times.”

As he says this, he rests his hand affectionately on Bashir’s shoulder. A gentle touch, meaningful and intimate. It tugs at his insides with such strength that everything he’s been holding there comes undone.

The first thing Bashir thinks about is alien hands roaming his younger self’s shoulders seductively, sending a shock through his body and making his heart jump inside his chest. _I’m so glad to have made such an interesting new friend today._ His mind had been racing with thoughts, then—he must’ve looked like a smitten schoolboy, running into Ops moments later. Amusing to look back on, sure, but he was young and excited, and it had been the start of something… valuable.

The second thing Bashir thinks about is time. How the illusion of its infinitude is broken the moment the first casualty list is posted. How he’d always felt like he was running out of time, anyways, so he always did things quickly, lest he fell behind everyone else. (How that meant sometimes he forgot the present also requires effort.) Some things can take seconds to break and years to fix. Others are worn down so slowly you don’t even notice the damage until it’s too late. And when things are beyond repair, there’s nothing to do but rebuild.

The third thing Bashir thinks about is Cardassia, in pieces. In need.

Of course, in real time, his reflections were quick enough for him to catch Garak’s wrist the second the scaly hand slipped away from his arm.

They stay frozen in place for a moment. Garak studies him intently, looking at the place where thin human fingers wrap tightly around his grey wrist, then back at his face. “…Doctor?”

Bashir swallows, lest his voice gives away too easily the fact that he had become very close to crying, and shakes his head. “I’m not leaving. I’m staying in Cardassia. I’m going to help with the reconstruction efforts. I’ll ask Starfleet to relocate me here, hell, I’ll resign if they don’t—”

“Doctor,” Garak interrupts his rambles with skepticism written all over his face. “Forgive the discourtesy, but… what prompted this sudden change of heart? I’ve never known you to be a fan of my people.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he insists. “Garak, you said it yourself. Look at this place. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

“Ah, and I suppose that’s where you come in.” Sarcastic reproach is another tone of his Bashir is familiar with. “The dashing hero of the Cardassian people, here to save us all from the destruction we brought upon ourselves with your signature Federation righteousness—”

“Garak!” His sudden rise in volume startles Garak into silence. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work. It never worked. Not with me.”

“No, you’re right. Because you’re never one to run away from a challenge, are you, Doctor?”

Tense silence washes over the room again.

Bashir shifts in place and finally lets go of Garak’s wrist. “Look, Garak, I… I know. I haven’t been kind to you. I’ve been… insensitive, and selfish.” Staring down, he lowers his voice even further, and the rest of the galaxy, Cardassia, the Dominion briefing room, everything goes away. It’s just the two of them now. “I was afraid, Garak. At one point, it just… it became too real. I took the coward’s way out and just started avoiding you because I didn’t want to deal with… with whatever we were on the verge of becoming. I’m sorry.” He forces himself to look Garak in the eyes. “You’re right. This isn’t just for Cardassia. It’s you, Garak. It’s always been you.”

Garak looks at him with his eyes wide open, unblinking, expression unreadable—not out of will, but out of what Bashir suspects is a bit too many emotions for the Cardassian to handle simultaneously. Yet another error in foresight by the brilliant genetically-enhanced doctor: perhaps confessing passionate love to a man whose homeworld had just been obliterated had not been the greatest of ideas, who would’ve thought. _You should’ve done this a long time ago_ , he tells himself. Another part of him, one that sounds suspiciously like Dax, retorts _well, no time like the present, anyway._

Because the fourth thing Bashir thinks about is that he’s not letting go again.

A few years back, Bashir would worry that the mysterious spy might be able to read his thoughts just by looking at his face and studying his expressions. For the first time in his life, he wishes that ability was actually in Garak’s arsenal. Maybe then he could tell just how much he meant this.

Garak has his back to him now, arms close to his chest. “Cardassians aren’t very keen on other races, Julian. You of all people should be well aware of that.” Bashir feels his throat swell up at hearing his first name on the familiar tongue. “You’d be living amongst strangers. Most of whom will look at you with distrust, or worse, hostility. You’ll be an outsider.” He turns towards him, caution written across his features. “I… must say, I can’t recommend the experience.”

Bashir shakes his head. “I’ve been an outsider all my life, Garak. That won’t change here or anywhere.” Carefully, as if approaching a scared wild creature, he steps closer until he’s standing right by Garak’s side. Once again, he reaches for his shoulder. “This is the right thing to do. I’m _certain_ of it.”

Garak sighs, and then looks up at him. “Well, Cardassia could certainly use a few more doctors.”

Bashir smiles. Garak smiles back—genuinely, this time. He raises his palm in invitation, and Bashir gladly accepts, tenderly pressing their palms together and intertwining their fingers.

“No, seriously, Miles, I envy you. Going back to Earth, a chance to enjoy paradise again.”

O’Brien chuckles. “Well, I don’t envy _you_. Cardassia must be a hellhole. Right now, I wouldn’t wish living there on my greatest enemies.”

“Thanks,” Bashir answers sarcastically over the brim of his glass.

Jake Sisko approaches from behind and amicably clasps the Chief’s shoulder. “Any idea where you’re going to live, Chief?”

“No. Keiko and I are still mulling over a few possibilities.”

“Have you ever considered Minsk?” interjects Worf, sitting behind Ezri.

“I don't think that's on our list.”

“New Orleans is a gorgeous city,” suggests Sisko from a few seats away.

"I've heard great things about Paris,” adds Kasidy.

“Minsk.”

“Jadzia loved Rio,” comments Ezri.

Odo arrives at his side with Kira trailing behind him. “You've certainly got a lot of choices.”

“Yeah. Too many.”

The sound of Worf suggesting Minsk again is muffled by the music as O’Brien turns back towards Bashir to resume their conversation.

“Well, wherever you decide to go, I’m sure that you and Keiko will be very happy,” Bashir says, bumping their shoulders together. The rest of the world disappears for a moment, unaware and indifferent to their little exchange. It’s a feeling both of them will miss.

“Listen, Julian. Have you… are you and…” O’Brien gestures vaguely, lowering his voice, unsure of exactly how much his friend has told the rest of the group. It’s not like they don’t know, of course—anyone with half a brain could deduce why Julian would willingly decide to stay on a damp, hot, war-torn planet with a man he’d spent years flirting with. Still, it should be up to him to… make it public.

Bashir chuckles silently. “We’ll get there. In due time.”

“Right.” He sips his glass. “But… he knows?”

A nod.

“Alright. Good.” And it really is. “Hey, I know you’ll be busy with the reconstruction efforts and all that, but I still expect you to keep in touch.”

“I intend to,” Bashir reassures him.

“Good. And... Earth isn’t exactly around the corner, but, maybe when things start to get better out there and you can afford a little break, you should visit.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Yeah, you and me, taking a little trip to Texas.”

“Standing side by side in front of the Alamo...”

“The _real_ Alamo. You see? It's going to be great.”

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t see how great it would be,” Quark interrupts from behind. “Earth’s nothing more than a rotating ball of boredom. And by the time Cardassia recovers enough for the Doctor to take a break, you’ll both be so old you won’t be able to walk up to the blasted thing anymore. No, if you ask me, you’d be better off staying here. Especially you,” he gestures towards Bashir.

Kira chuckles beside Odo, looking at the scene with amusement. “Well, it looks like you’ll finally get a taste for that wilderness you wanted so badly, Doctor.”

Bashir turns, smirking. “That wilderness is their home, Colonel,” he answers with affection. It takes her a moment to recognize her own words, but when she does, she smiles even wider than before, in that way that wrinkles her nose and makes her eyes sparkle. She reaches out and squeezes his shoulder.

“You’ve come a long way, Julian. I’m proud of you.”

He smiles back, grabbing her hand and squeezing it affectionately.

“Ah, who needs wilderness when you have this station?” Quark waves a hand dismissively, walking towards Odo. “My opinion stands. And it goes for you and Worf as well.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental, Quark,” Kira teases.

“Me? Not a chance. I just don’t like change.”

“You'd better get used to it. Things are going to be pretty different around here now,” Sisko says, looking at his drink. He raises his glass with purpose, effortlessly holding their undivided attention one last time. “To the best crew any captain ever had. This may be the last time we're all together, but no matter what the future holds, no matter how far we travel, a part of us, a very important part, will always remain here, on Deep Space Nine.”

As everyone clinks their glasses together and exchanges cheers, Vic calls for attention from the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen—tonight is a very special night for some friends of mine. They've been together a long time. But like the man said… nothing lasts forever. So, gang, this one's from the heart.”

It’s a shame Garak never enjoyed the Vic program, Bashir thinks. Not that it was out of character—few things were more intrinsically human than Vic’s, with its jazz and various human patrons and 20th century Earth aesthetics. And Vic Fontaine himself, arguably. No, it made sense that he would think it as vapid as any other of Bashir’s holodeck programs—perhaps it was just as well he had come back to the station alone. It would’ve been interesting, still, to have him participate in this reunion. Most of the crew was loath to admit it, but Garak had been as much a part of their lives as anyone else.

It’s curious. It wasn’t news to him that Garak barely had any personal items to his name, let alone that he wasn’t particularly fond of DS9, but not until he’d rejected the invitation to go back one last time did he realize that, really, the only good thing left tying Garak to the station was… him. 

He’s definitely bringing some recordings of Vic’s music to Cardassia. Who knows? Maybe they’ll appreciate it. (Probably not. But he’ll still bring them for his own sake. And, if anything, they might serve to spark up some debate with Garak, for old times’ sake.)

Now, though, he sits back, looks at his friends, and lets the holographic voice wash over him.

_Someday, when I’m awfully low_

_When the world is cold_

_I will feel a glow just thinking of you_

_And the way you look tonight…_

It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust when he steps out of the shuttle. It’s nighttime, and the moons provide the only source of light for miles to come. Bright as they might be, clouds are scattered through the sky, and a normal human would struggle to see clearly enough in this darkness—three cheers for augmentations, Bashir thinks dryly.

What moonlight manages to come through illuminates the various crumbling structures that used to be Cardassia City. Quite an impressive city, too, if Garak’s opinion amounted to anything. In most places, the floor isn’t even visible under all the rubble. The ground isn’t the only thing hiding under the wreck, Bashir knows—the stench will not be slow to permeate the air in days to come.

He’ll have to acknowledge it, eventually. That much is obvious. But tonight, he allows himself to just close his eyes and breathe.

It’s not until he starts coughing that he remembers to put on his mask. Dust permeates the air all around the war-torn areas and their surroundings. It leaves an unpleasant chalky paste inside his mouth. The composition of that dust is something else he decides to think about tomorrow.

“Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to that,” Garak says in place of a greeting, stepping into his space. “It’s more manageable indoors, if you manage to find any.”

It’s practical, if a bit of a bummer, that Cardassian gestures of affection are mostly expressed with the hands. Bashir knows that shouldn’t be a priority, but love makes fools of us all, so he can’t really blame himself.

“And you’ve managed to find an ‘indoors’, I trust?”

“A question you should have asked before impulsively deciding to move here,” Garak tuts. He waits a second to answer, for a bit of dramatic effect. “But yes, I have. My old house is nothing but rubble, but there’s a small outbuilding in the back still standing. It should suffice for the time being, if you don’t mind the coziness.”

“I think I’ll manage,” chuckles Bashir. “We _could_ improvise something with the shuttle as well. I’m sure the Federation wouldn’t notice if one were missing.” And they wouldn’t, not if Kira had anything to say about it.

“Ah, I can see the upsides of your company already, my dear Doctor,” says Garak, snaking an arm around Bashir’s waist and pulling him closer. Bashir smiles and tries raising his palm, tentatively. He’s met with a look of infinite fondness he didn’t know he’d missed—made even more exceptional by tinting a face that, moments ago, had seemed to only know despondence.

His palm remains untouched. Instead, Garak reaches for his face and lowers his mask, then gently pushes their lips together.

It’s a fairly chaste kiss—their mouths taste like dust, after all, and the air is barely breathable. Surrounding them there’s nothing but ruins and the marks of havoc, the agonizing corpse of a comatose civilization—not quite dead, but barely breathing, the possibilities of recovery promised but intangible in the far, far future.

Still, just for this moment, Julian Bashir lets himself be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> [Hozier's 'Wasteland, Baby!' plays over speakers]
> 
> This is my first time posting fic (because it's the first time I actually finish one) and, I gotta say, it feels very "submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known"-y. Kudos to fic writers for doing this all the time. It's terrible!  
> Please do let me know if you find any mistakes or questionable choices my beta and I might have overlooked, however minor, as I'm aiming to be as good an English speaker as possible. Any suggestions (even if just stylistic—I do have a tendency towards very long sentences) are more than welcome.  
> But also any comments at all are greatly appreciated because my gay little hands are shaking as I post this and the only cure is validation from strangers on the internet.


End file.
